


Writing On The Wall

by seimaisin



Category: Bandom, Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:52:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seimaisin/pseuds/seimaisin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vaguely dystopic AU, written for the no_tags prompt "Gerard/Lyn-Z, on the lam".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writing On The Wall

Gerard's brush flew across the concrete wall, painting quickly. Six candles, signifying six dead in the last riot. A small dog to let people know exactly which security team was patrolling this sector – the one led by Selman, who resembled nothing more than a rat-haired terrier. A triangle around the dog; a triangle for Tuesday, so the people who lived in that sector would be able to figure how many days they should lay low before trying again. Once the important information was painted, Gerard drew a small grey skull, a symbol that would identify the small mural as his. People may not know his name, but they would know which gang was responsible for the information.

“Hurry up,” Frank hissed at him, from his spot at the foot of the ladder. “We've got maybe five minutes until the security patrol comes back.”

“Fuck.” It wouldn't be Gerard's best work, not with barely fifteen minutes to complete, but it would serve its purpose. Gerard finished the edges of the mural as much as he could and climbed down with only a couple of minutes to spare. “Where to?” he asked Frank, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“You cut it close up there. Come on, there's a bolt hole a block over, we can hide out there until the patrol goes past.”

As they hurried away, Gerard noticed a faded mural on the wall opposite of his work, a message to a local militia group about a past riot. The tiny doll-like figures painted across the bottom edge were a signature he didn't recognize. He gestured toward it. “Security fake?” he wondered aloud.

Frank shook his head. “Nah, I've seen that one a couple of times. They have good info. I think it's from a new central sector gang.”

Lights flashed down the street from an approaching security vehicle. Gerard filed the image away in his mind as they dashed down a side alley to safety.

*

Gerard had been painting murals since he was thirteen. He and Mikey lost their parents in one of the early riots; they ran with a newly-formed gang for two years before the murals started. Communication between sectors was sketchy at best – a runner had to deliver messages on foot, sector to sector, because no one without an official city ID could enter the train station. Some people could forge IDs, but the money needed to buy one would feed a small gang for an entire month. So, runners needed to learn all the routes from sector to sector that fell off security radar. It could take a long time to locate a gang's current hiding place, and security teams found hideouts with alarming regularity. Not many runners stayed both alive and free for more than a year.

After the death of a previous runner, their gang decided to send Mikey to the next sector with that week's messages. Gerard spent five of the worst days of his life sitting in one of the central sectors, imagining all the ways Mikey could die, or worse, get captured and tortured by an overzealous security team. Mikey arrived back in one piece, thankfully, but Gerard silently swore he'd never have to watch his brother leave like that again.

The next week, their gang planned an operation near one of the food processing plants; it was a large enough plant that they needed backup. When someone suggested sending Mikey around the three nearest sectors to collect other gangs, Gerard begged them to send him along as well. Gerard stole a set of paints from a store in the first sector, and painted small pictures in known gang hideouts in every sector – the first picture was simple, just the fist that gangs spray-painted onto security buildings to antagonize the authorities, with the name of the food processing plant and a date underneath. They hit six different sectors in three days, and gangs from four of those sectors showed up on the right day to help liberate an entire truck full of food.

After that, the gang left communications to Gerard. He developed an entire graphic language, which Mikey helped him pass on from gang to gang. It only took a couple of years for every gang to designate a mural painter. Security painted over murals as quickly as they could find them, but nearly twenty years after Gerard painted his first message, there were over thirty painters hiding around the city. Buildings, sidewalks, and windows all over the city were covered in colorful images, remnants of old messages, and reminders to security that there were still people out there who escaped the governmental programs that decided everything from where you lived to what job you had, even who you were allowed to marry. It had been over two decades since the Draft Charter had been implemented, and the resistance still grew every day. Gerard knew he couldn't take all of the credit, but he imagined that some of their new recruits came thanks to messages they read on the street.

Each painter developed his or her own signature. Gerard's murals were always accompanied by a skull. A painter who usually painted in the east included a dark-lined cat face in every picture. A teenaged girl Mikey met in the central sector wrote all text in a circular spiraling pattern; hard to read at first, but it made for an eye-catching visual that was hard for security to decipher. Signatures were important – they showed a gang which pictures could be trusted. Security tried to plant fake messages occasionally, but each mural painter knew how to spot fake signatures within an instant. It was, Gerard thought, in the way a hand wielded a brush. You couldn't imitate the quirk of a wrist, the tiny differences in pressure and angle. He'd never met any of the other three dozen painters in the city, but he felt like he could write a book about each one of them based on their work.

He wondered sometimes what they thought about him.

*

Gerard thought a lot about the unknown doll signature a lot in the following weeks. It showed up on a timely warning, one that kept Ray from walking straight into a security trap in the eastern sector. It pointed toward a well-stocked bolt hole on the south end of a central sector. It warned them away from a weapons dealer that had informed to security. They started referring to her – one of their eastern sector contacts swore she was a woman, that he'd met her – as Doll.

“Doll's been here,” Mikey said through a mouth full of oatmeal. He'd been out all night, visiting their contacts in this, the far eastern sector. “Saw her work two blocks from here.”

“Oh, yeah? What's it say?” Gerard asked.

Mikey waved his hand in the air. “You have to see this one for yourself.”

Gerard waited an hour before wandering out of their hiding place. He did a random loop around several blocks before finally hitting the street Mikey had pointed him toward. He saw the mural immediately – hard for anyone to miss it, really, as it was easily a story tall and eight feet across. It was very simple, just a giant list of names painted in glittering gold paint. Gerard figured he wouldn't be noticed if he stared at it, as there were at least ten other people gaping at it from the sidewalk.

As he skimmed the names, he began to recognize some of them … different gangs, different home sectors, different jobs. The one thing they all had in common, he realized finally, was that they'd all died in the last few months. It was a list of the dead – for what purpose, though, Gerard had no idea. It was powerful, though. He never painted a mural that large. He never had the time to paint anything larger than four by four, at most. This mural would have taken an entire night to paint, and that was if Doll painted fast. She must, he decided, and she must have a singularly efficient gang on her side to give her that much time.

Something warm blossomed in Gerard's chest as he studied the looping handwriting on the wall. Admiration, he decided, with a small side of envy. He wouldn't trade his gang for anyone or anything – Frank and Ray were just as much his brothers as Mikey was – but god, he'd sell his soul for the time and energy to paint something this bold.

Sirens sounded close by; the crowd around Gerard scattered. He put his hands in his pockets and wandered casually down the block. He looked back when he reached a corner several blocks away. In the distance, he could see a security team leaning ladders against the mural, carrying buckets of whitewash. He turned the corner, silently mourning the work of art being destroyed.

*

Doll painted three more name murals over the next few weeks. They picked out more and more names they recognized, all dead comrades. She left her messages in increasingly public places; the last was on the side of a building half a block away from sector security headquarters, which left Frank whistling in surprise. “Ballsy lady,” he commented as he and Gerard hurried away from the oncoming security team. “How did she manage to get that much time?”

“Distraction,” Mikey told them when they returned to their hideout. “I talked to Cleeth this morning, he said that someone set up a spontaneous riot last night, set fire to an old abandoned draft office. It was big enough that a good half of security was across town for most of the night. I bet it was her people.”

Gerard admired the effort, but wondered why a list of dead warranted that kind of planning. He longed to ask Doll what it meant, about how she painted so fast, and why she chose to send such a hard-to-decipher message.

He dreamed about Doll that night. He didn't see her, but he found himself painting a giant, intricate mural next to someone who smelled of flowers and oil paint. His swirling darkness faded into millions of tiny dolls, as his hand twined with strong, thin fingers clasping a paint brush.

*

Gerard wandered out into the night alone. It wasn't a good idea, and he knew it – they'd initiated a riot near the local work draft office three days earlier, and security was still crawling all over town. They'd tripled the number of guards working the sector border, so it would be impossible for any of them to leave town until things died down. So, until then, the four of them were stuck waiting in the same hideout – quite frankly, Gerard was going stir-crazy. So, when everyone else was busy playing cards, he'd grabbed a gun and left.

His fingers were itching to paint; he wanted to tell all comers about the way the draft manager was fixing the numbers to make sure that wealthy kids' numbers never got called for manual labor jobs. But, he knew better than to bring his paints and brushes with him. For one, security was tighter than tight, and two, he never painted without a lookout. No, this night, he just needed to walk, to clear his head.

That didn't mean, however, that he couldn't scout for good painting locations. When they'd run away from the draft center, Gerard had spotted a nice large wall; it was close to a market, so plenty of people would see it during the day, but the area was closed and deserted during the night. He didn't know how often security came through the area, though. He had a couple of hours before curfew began, so he figured he'd wander around and time the patrols.

He hung out at a bar two blocks away for an hour; patrols came by every fifteen minutes or so. Gerard frowned when the third one passed. Fifteen minutes wasn't nearly enough time to paint anything properly. Maybe he could talk someone into causing a distraction. Frank was getting itchy enough that he might be up for something crazy; Ray would be a harder sell, but he'd probably recognize the importance of the message Gerard wanted to send. Mikey was always up for distracting people, as long as the chances of having to fight were slim. Between them, they could probably come up with a plan to buy Gerard at least an extra half hour.

After a while, he finished his drink and wandered in the direction of the wall. A block away, he stopped, confused. A large security barrier blocked the street, with a sign: _DECONTAMINATION IN PROGRESS_.

“What happened here?” Gerard muttered under his breath. No one had set off any gas bombs around here during the riot – the riot had happened a half mile away, and they didn't use gas bombs anyway. There was no reason he could think of that this block would need decon … unless someone else had hit the market while they were hiding out? Mikey would have heard about it during his daily recon sweep, Gerard was sure of it. Had security suppressed an attack? If so, then whatever had happened had hit them hard. And if it was quiet enough that Mikey hadn't heard about it … well, now Gerard _had_ to know what happened.

Gerard looked around, but security was nowhere to be found. He pulled his gun from his belt and checked the ammo. Quickly, he ducked under the barrier and hurried down the block.

There was no telltale gas smell, no shattered glass or shards of metal that would indicate a bombing. In fact, the block was eerily empty, quiet except for a whispering sound that Gerard had to strain to hear. Holding his gun close to his chest, Gerard moved around the corner slowly, stepping carefully so as not to make any sound with his shoes.

The block was dark, as he expected on any night in the commercial district, but the market was curiously unshuttered for a decontamination zone. Gerard scanned the street slowly, starting on the market side and working his way over to the wall.

A ladder leaned against the wall. He saw a dark-clad figure moving at the top of the ladder, but wasn't fast enough to react before the figure turned and pointed a gun at him.

He stared at the gun. The woman who wielded it stared back at Gerard's own gun, pointed back at her. Only her delicate, ivory facial features betrayed her gender She looked panicked, but her hands were steady. “You're not security,” she said softly, just loud enough for Gerard to hear.

“No.”

“Who are you?”

Gerard looked beyond the gun. The wall was partially painted – if he stared, he could make out lettering in some dark, glittering color. Something that would stand out against the normal brown brick of the wall, no doubt. As his eyes adjusted, the mural became clearer. He read several names, and just above the woman's head, he made out a half sketched figure. “A doll,” he murmured.

“What?”

“You're painting the list of the dead.”

“I am. What's it to you?”

Gerard lowered his gun and took a step forward. The woman cocked her gun, and he held up his hands. “I'm a painter. I was eying that wall myself.”

Her expression didn't change, but Gerard saw her grip relax slightly. “Who are you?”

“Would you even recognize my name?”

“No, but if you're a painter, it's not your name I want.”

Gerard nodded. “Skulls.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Truth?”

“Truth.”

She paused for a moment. Then, she lowered her gun and tucked it back into her pants. “Then come help me.”

Gerard approached the ladder. He cocked his head and watched her climb over onto a nearby window ledge. She gestured at him. “Come on, I have extra brushes.”

Gerard obeyed – it was an odd request, but he wasn't about to turn down an invitation to work with the most intriguing painter he'd encountered in his career. At the top of the ladder, he grabbed a brush from her hand. Their fingers brushed, and Gerard suppressed a shudder at the contact. When he looked at her, dark eyes stared back at him, as if searching his face for a hidden message. Gerard cleared his throat. “What are we painting?” he asked.

“Names. People who have died. Gang members, civilians, anyone you know. Doesn't matter who. Just paint.”

“But why -”

“Shut up. We don't have that much time. You already cost me ten minutes.”

Gerard painted. He wove his names in between the ones she'd already written. He painted names of people he'd grown up with in his previous gang, contacts who had died in the crossfire, people who used to run with him and his brothers and paid the ultimate price. After a little while, he forgot the woman was there – he painted in curves and curls, and began to notice her own writing matching the waves of his own. The names began to spin together in swirls of dark color, creating patterns that would catch an eye even before the viewer realized the mural held several dozen precious names.

He had just finished painting his own parents' names when he heard a whistle. The sound came from a block or so away, somewhere near the barrier he'd jumped. The woman swore creatively. “They must have figured out the barrier is a fake.”

“We have to get out of here.”

She shot him a withering look. “Get down. I need the ladder.”

Gerard slid quickly to the ground and repositioned the ladder closer to the window. She jumped to a middle rung with ease. By the time she was on the ground, Gerard could see sweeping lights approaching from around the corner. “Fuck. We're caught.”

“Not yet.” She grabbed his hand. “Come on, hurry.”

Gerard allowed her to pull him in the direction of the market. She ducked into a small alley on the far side of the building. An opening on the other end showed an empty street – without letting go of Gerard's hand, the woman took off running. He had no choice but to follow along.

They emerged onto a street Gerard was only vaguely familiar with. He could hear voices in the alley behind him – security, right on their heels. “You know any bolt holes around here?” he asked.

“There's one two blocks east. Come on.”

They ran. The woman guided them behind a set of trash dumpsters and up an escape ladder on the side of a tall apartment building. Halfway up the building, she shoved him through an open window. He tumbled into an empty apartment, rolling out of the way just in time for her to jump inside. “Not here,” she said, “keep going.”

They left the building through another window – she swung out into the air and grabbed a ladder on the next building, an arm's length away. Gerard followed suit, and followed along as she climbed to the roof. Finally, on the roof of the second building, she led him to a small door. It was obviously a maintenance shed, but she pulled open a small closet and brought out two blankets and a large bottle of water. “Not much,” she said, “but we can wait them out here for a little while.”

Gerard gratefully accepted the bottle when she held it out. He took a large swig before handing it back. “I didn't know this was here,” he said as she drank. “But we don't work out of this sector too often.”

“I do,” she said. She pulled off her cap to reveal long hair the color of midnight. When she pushed up her sleeves, one arm was covered in tattoos. “It's been hot around here, we made sure to restock our backup bolt holes after the riot. Your work?”

He nodded. “Should I apologize?”

She shrugged. “Nah. It's the norm around here, isn't it?”

Something in her voice made Gerard pause. He had a million questions for her, but after a moment, he settled on a basic one. “What's your name?”

After a hesitation, she set down the water bottle and held out her hand. “Lindsey. You?”

“Gerard.” He took her hand. Their skin was damp with sweat, but there was a heat in the grip Gerard couldn't entirely blame on their flight. He held on for just a moment too long, but she didn't seem inclined to call him on it.

They sat on the floor of the shed. Lindsey used the rolled-up blanket as a pillow as she leaned against the wall. Gerard sat on his. “So,” she said, looking curiously at Gerard, “you're Death, huh?”

Gerard nearly choked on his mouthful of water. When he stopped coughing, he wiped his mouth and stared back at her. “Death? Really?”

She shrugged, a small smile playing across her face. “Skulls. It fit.”

“Huh.” He laughed. So did she – her voice was lovely, Gerard decided. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at himself. An opportune time to develop a crush, of course. “Where did you get dolls from?”

“I don't know. I just took them from an illustration in a book my brother has. They looked cool. Why skulls?”

“They looked cool.”

She scowled at him, but her eyes sparkled. They fell silent for a few minutes, until Gerard decided to ask the question he was most curious about. “Hey, the murals you've been painting lately ...”

Lindsey quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Why the names? Why dead people?”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “Because there are too damned many. Because we need to remember them.”

“To remind security that there are people out there that they're killing?”

“Not necessarily.” Lindsey opened her eyes. Her expression was serious. “Some of the names I've painted are dead guards, people our side has killed.”

“Why?”

“Because they're people. Because they left people behind who miss them. Everyone does.”

Gerard thought about that a moment. “I guess that's true.”

“It is.” She sighed again. “I think I'm on the right side, don't get me wrong. But we spend so much time focusing on ideology, sometimes I think we forget that everyone has a name. Everyone's just a person who wants a better life for themselves.”

“So you paint their names.”

“Yeah.” She seemed to search Gerard's face. “You don't agree?”

“No, it's not that!” He thought for a moment. “It's funny. I started painting in the first place to keep my brother alive. I guess I can't argue with anyone's efforts to keep people alive, even if it's just their memory.”

Lindsey's smile lit up the entire shed. When Gerard smiled back at her, she reached across with her foot and poked his leg. “I've always wondered who you were, you know,” she said, looking away.

“Me?”

“Yeah. Everyone knows Death invented this whole method of communication. You're kind of a legend.”

Gerard chuckled. “Tell that to my brother. He'll hurt himself laughing at you.”

“I travel with my brother too. He's a giant pain in my ass.” She grinned. “I wouldn't trade him for anyone. But don't tell him that.”

“I won't tell yours if you don't tell mine.”

“Deal.”

Gerard paused. “Hey,” he asked, feeling awkward, “who else do you run with, besides your brother?”

“Three other friends. We've all known each other since we were kids. You?”

“Two friends. Brothers. Family.”

“Yeah, exactly.” She looked at the ceiling. “Man, they're probably so pissed right now. They hate it when I go off to paint by myself, and I'm almost an hour late checking in.”

Gerard felt a spike of guilt. “My guys are probably pretty frantic. I didn't even tell them I was going.”

“Sloppy.”

“I know. Stupid move.”

“Very stupid.” Lindsey held up the water bottle. “Here's to being stupid artists.”

She took a drink and handed it back to Gerard. His fingers curled over hers and lingered a moment too long. When he looked up at her face, he thought he caught a hint of a blush. He hid a smile as he took a long drink of water.

They spent the next hour talking about everything and nothing – lost family, favorite bolt holes, friend and enemies they had in common. When the first pink light of dawn shone underneath the door, Lindsey finally stood up. “We're probably safe. We can go in through the building elevator, the maintenance guys know me.”

They walked out onto the street into a hazy purple glow. On an impulse, Gerard grasped Lindsey's hand. She squeezed, smiling at him. “I guess this is it,” she said slowly.

“Yeah. I should go back.”

“Me too.” Neither volunteered their gang's location. Neither asked. Lindsey had, by her own admission, been in the riot world almost as long as Gerard. There was a code, a loyalty to your own people that you didn't betray, not even for a bright smile and art that took your breath away.

They lingered for a long moment, hands clasped. Then, in a movement so quick Gerard almost thought he imagined it, Lindsey leaned over and brushed a kiss over his cheek. “You ever need backup,” she said, “paint me a doll.”

Gerard had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Likewise. I mean, paint me a skull. I'll come.”

One corner of her mouth quirked upwards. “I hope so.”

She turned away first. Gerard allowed himself to watch her walk halfway down the block before he made himself back up and turn toward his temporary home.

*

Several weeks later, they were involved in a riot at a marriage draft that ended with four dead gang members and three dead security guards. Gerard asked one of their contacts to find him the names of the guards.

He left the sector with a mural next to the central shopping district. He painted seven names.

*

Ray was the one who spotted the mural. “Hey, you didn't paint something about a riot in the north, did you?” he asked Gerard.

Gerard shook his head. “No, why?”

“There's one over next to the bar that has a skull. But it has the dolls, too, so I was confused.”

They walked to the bar. Gerard managed to catch the mural just before a security team splashed whitewash over it. The skull was painted inside a small heart.

“Why are you grinning like that?” Ray asked.

“Because we're heading for the north,” he replied, clapping Ray on the shoulder.

Never had a riot sounded so sweet.


End file.
